This week, The Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan takes a look at the influence of aesthetics on one’s point of view:

 

I don’t know much about art, but I know what I like—not spending any more time drawing these things than I absolutely have to.

 

 

Aw, c’mon Moose, jus’ say “good eeeeeevening”, like we rehears’d, an’ kill me later.

‘Scuse my rusty crankiness, on account’a I haven’t bin on th’ writin’ end’a many’a these postin’s lately. Uncle Fun wood hafta pick this time’a year fer us ta visit th’ Kuzzents fam’ly. “Height of the tourist season in a world capital, and throngs of the unsuspecting and undiscerning all set for enlightenment and exploitation in myriad forms,” he sez — whutever that all means.

Frum where I sit (an’ “as much outta th’ way as possible” has bin drumm’d inta me as the prime locashun fer sittin’), ya kin take er leave Ottawa in th’ summertime — if it duzzent evapurrate in th’ hyoomiditty while yer takin’ er leavin’ it, that is. Whut with everyone ‘round here wrapp’d up head ta toe in th’ Ottawa Fringe Festival, an’ therefore otherwise too ockyoupied ta blog, suddenly they all ‘member I got time on my hands, since I’m too young ta get inta mosta th’ good shows with violence an’ swearin’ an’ ever’thing else that makes life worthwhile, so it’s “look, Sparky, no-one’s sittin’ at th’ keyboard an’ no-one’s lookin’, nudge nudge wink wink”. If that’s a bait an’ switch, there ain’t much in th’ way’a bait to it.

So while everyone else here goes off an’ has themselves a slap-happy ol’ time fringin’ ‘til their eyeballs fall out, I’m stuck here tellin’ ya ‘bout all th’ fun they’re havin’ which I ain’t. That ain’t even th’ short enda th’ stick — it ain’t no stick at all. Y’see, th’ neat thing ‘bout a fringe festival is that it’s one big sideshow, which is my favert kinda show ‘cuz it’s like a show, only off ta th’ side, which is usuwally th’ place where th’ real action happens inna show anyways, an’ plus th’ even neater thing ‘bout a fringe festival is that it offen has li’l sideshows within itself which are even sideshowier than th’ main sideshow. But do they invite me ta have a piece’a any’a this sideshow action, even ta one side’a ta one side’a the’ sideshow? I guess ya know my answer, but I’ll give it to ya anyway, in three parts:

N.

O.

NO.

Whut I’m drivin’ at here is that Mister Kuzzents did his world-famously third-rate Alfred Hitchcock imitashun at a late-nite fringe cabaret inna funky cool musty basemunt, while I sat lock’d by him in th' supply closet — and I quote, “for your own good, for the good of the audience, and for the good of the show …not necessarily in that order”. Him doin’ th’ quickie illustrashun’a Moose ya saw above duzzent make up fer th’ humillyashun, psyckalogickull scars, an’ possible lifelong after-effecks frum breathin’ in fumes offa bottles’a industriyull cleanin’ producks — not by a long shot. I cood have perm’nunt brain dammidge now, fer all anybuddy here cares.

Okay — I dunno who I jus’ heard say “or fer all anybuddy here cood tell”, but now I’m mad. Jus’ see if I let any of ya inta my musty basement fringe cabaret, when I have one.

Alfred Hitchcock, phooey. When it comes ta old-timey teevee mystery-horror-an’-suspense anthollagee serieses, I prefur Night Gallery anyway. B’leeve me — Rod Serling’s sideburns are scary enuf ta give ya nightmares fer a month.

Sparky

 

The Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan is still concerned with questions of identity and existence, as you can see:

 

…or not see, as the case may be.

 

 

     Despite Our Miss Moose’s objections, the shibboleth which has been cut-and-pasted into the speech bubbles of the above illustration remains truer than ever. (For those who'd like to cut and paste another tidbit of useless information into their official Uncle Fun and Sparky scrapbooks, the drawing was repurposed from an as-yet-unused pitch for a television cartoon show…maybe someday procrastination will ebb and ambition will flow, but that’s a discussion for another time. As you can tell from the remark that ended that last sentence, procrastination is very much in the ascendant, with je-m’en-foutisme rising.)

     But I digress (which is like procrastinating, if you think about it, but like all things related to procrastination, you can probably do that later). In an effort to introduce her to the joys of their semi-bohemian lifestyle (and possibly one day drive her away from it as fast as she can run), Mr. and Mrs. Cousins have put their infant daughter Ruby to work as a shill. It’s all in a good cause: promoting Kurt Fitzpatrick’s one-man show Cathedral City (directed by Mrs. Cousins; sound design and cameos via voice-over by Mr. Cousins) at the Ottawa Fringe Festival. Here’s the photographic evidence for any interested child welfare authorities that no Ruby Cousinses were harmed or unnecessarily exploited during the aforementioned shilling.

 

     Anyone who may be concerned that Ruby is less than fully aware of what’s going on should note that she has the solicitous look of someone who’s already wondering when that appearance fee she was promised is going to show up.

     Speaking of appearance fees, if any charities in Canada are on the lookout for someone to get attention for them, Ruby works for almost nothing at all. This way, if large sums of money go missing unexpectedly from your bottom line, you won’t have to enlist members of the ruling party in Parliament to ask the Prime Minister’s Office to peddle influence or defame someone’s character on your behalf in order to square your accounts. Unfortunately, this does mean you’ll have to find your own way of dealing with board members who go rogue, and maybe even submit your books to a forensic audit, but that is the way that things are done in countries where the rule of law applies equally to the rulers and the ruled.

     …and possibly even in Canada—in theory—well, that’s the way it used to be there…or so I’ve heard. 

Uncle Fun

 

This special Father’s Day edition of The Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan is about the things that keep fathers and their children connected, even when they’re far apart:

 

(And—as a private joke for my own dear departed dad—roadrunners can’t read.)

 

 

One thing you can say about straw is that it isn’t traceable...not like a personal cheque for ninety grand, that’s for darn sure. And, on that note, hi-de-ho there, friends in Canada -- and I say that because, if anybody else cares about what I’m going to say, you have my sympathy. It’s introduction time again, since my chances to headline on this stage are farther apart than the seams on my 4XL toreador pants. I’m Milady Madeira M’Dear, sorceress extraordinary, and purveyor of potions to finer gentry and squalid commoners alike.

So much for that claptrap. Down to business. Speaking of business, if you’ve been in the magic business as long as I have, you can spot someone in need of the old abracadabra a mile away. Or in this case, 1.6 kilometres, since that’s how they measure their miles in Canada. (You get I’m going to be talking about Canada from here on in, right? Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

So anyway, the Conservative government of Canada looks like it’s in need of the services of a good witch, seeing as how most of what they’ve been telling people is straight out of a fairy tale. Frankly, I don’t think an entire coven of A-list witches working round-the-clock shifts through weekends for a year could brew up a ladder long enough to help these goofballs out of the hole they’re digging for themselves.  Still, I hate to see dumb animals suffer, even if the animals in question are nothing more than slimy two-faced chiselling Tory creeps.

That last bit is kind of like saying the same thing five times in a row, isn’t it? Well, whatever. If I was going to give these reactionary jerktards a helping hand (and, as you can tell, I’m not), I’ve got a few old reliable tricks that I could pull out of my pointy hat, once I got it unstuck from the bobby pins.

On the “getting unstuck” front, the collective bargaining agreement for the UAW (the Union of Amalgamated Witches, that is) forbids me from helping liars un-tell lies. By rights, that should be game, set and match for Tories all across Canada. Even so, there’s still plenty that any of my card-carrying sisters could pull off, if they had a mind to.

For starters, there are a few methods of fundraising which the Conservatives haven’t looked into, probably because they’re all perfectly legal. For instance:  

- A magic pig to help them hunt for rare and expensive truffles which they can sell to fancy restaurants at an exorbitant mark-up.

- A magic truffle to help them hunt for rare and expensive pigs which they can sell to fancy restaurants at an exorbitant mark-up.

- A goose that lays golden eggs...oh wait -- they’ve already got that. It’s called “anonymous corporate donations”. Okay then, a goose that lays golden eggs filled with legitimate receipts for travel, accommodation, and other expenses.

- While we’re on the topic of whether people actually live where they say they do, I’ll give you one of my personal favourites. It’s a house made of croutons, which can be set up anywhere a senator needs to establish residency. Plant a garden of romaine lettuce around it, and you can bulldoze the whole thing into a giant Caesar salad when you’re done with it.

Now, money may make the world go ‘round, but the world of politics runs on a hybrid engine. Here’s a few more things that might come in handy:

- On his or her birthday, every member of the Conservative Party gets a cake with a file baked into it. (It’s a good bet that at least some of them will be doing time in the near future, so better safe than sorry.)

- For the ones who do wind up in the stir, autographed copies of Blind Ambition by John Dean and All the President’s Men. (I don’t know why these aren’t required reading for everyone who runs for public office, but there you have it.)

- For Stephen Harper, a magic mirror that dispenses advice -- and issues public disclaimers for advice not followed.

 

 

- A talking cat that can also whistle “Ain’t Misbehavin’” while doing a soft shoe in swim fins and juggling cinder blocks. (All this will do is distract people from the scandals, but hey, every little bit helps.)

- Better yet, a new leadership review process. Instead of conducting the review on a “one riding, one vote” basis, all party members have to kiss toads, newts, and salamanders to see if any of them turns into a handsome prince (the toads, the newts, the salamanders, or the people kissing them...who cares? I know I don’t). This won’t work at all, but it’ll be entertaining for anyone who isn’t a Conservative to watch. Mind you, it’s kind of like the way they wound up with the leader they’ve got right now...minus the kissing, of course.   

- And, last but not least, a spell to put Elections Canada, the Auditor General, the RCMP fraud squad, and the Canadian electorate to sleep for a hundred years. By then, the statute of limitations on most of what they’ve done should have pretty much expired.

Well, it’s time for me to go. I hear on the witches’ grapevine that the mayor of someplace called Toronto (is that actually a city?) is looking for a way to explain away...well, here it gets a little hazy, but I get the sense that what we’re talking about is something along the lines of “everything he’s ever done”. 

Milady M. M’Dear

 

This week, The Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan is about the bonds that hold families together:

 

It doesn’t have to be bonds, of course—preferred shares or annuities work just as well.

 

 

     Sparky and Miss Moose had also better keep an eye out for Klingon wessels—er, vessels—off the starboard bow…it doesn’t look like the crew of the Enterprise is on top of that, either. Be that as it may (and I don’t see why it should, but that’s a discussion for another time), the illustration that heads this posting serves a dual purpose: not only is it a sop to fans of Trekkie in-jokes everywhere, but it also ties in with a general theme of discovering one’s true place in the universe.

     This, in turn, ties back to Star Trek. The latest movie based on the venerable TV franchise about the interstellar exploits of red-shirted cannon fodder has boldly gone where other movies have gone before, and is on screens from here to Rigel 7. This particular Star Trek features the resurrection of Khan, a genetically-augmented megalomaniac originally portrayed by Ricardo Montalbán.

 

 

     Señor Montalbán is no longer with us, but Khan lives on, incarnated by another actor. And this, as Spike Milligan would say, is where the story really starts, because Khan the Star Trek character is a native of the Indian subcontinent, which Montalbán and the actor playing New Khan most decidedly are not.

     (Quick footnote: I mentioned Spike Milligan because he took an embarrassing turn as a Caucasian playing a Pakistani in a long-forgotten sitcom called Curry and Chips. Google it if you must, then avoid it like the plague.)

     For my part, I’m not terribly bothered by the whole thing. Maybe South Asians will look different in the future—and if they do start leaning towards the “European” end of Indo-European, it’s probably a darn sight better that they resemble Ricardo Montalbán than Peter Sellers in The Party.

 

     …to say nothing of preventing everyone involved from being upstaged by Gavin McLeod’s toupée. As a further piece of devil’s advocacy, I’ll remind you about the all the people named Khan who aren’t from anywhere near India…fine folks with first names like Genghis, Kublai, Aga, Gus and Sammy. Okay, not so much the last two—but it was worth it for the humour value of a cheap pun.

     And this is where the story really starts, because a cheap pun is at the heart of it all. To fully fathom the dubious witticism that follows, it’s imperative that you know who Penn and Teller are. For those of you still unfamiliar with the duo after three decades of international renown for magic, comedy, and exposing scams, Sparky has kindly taken up his best (or at any rate, his only unbroken) Crayola to sketch a quick aide-memoire:

 

     My apologies to fans of Penn and Teller, and of good draftsmanship. Anyway—and this is where the story really starts—it all began when The Cousins Lad’s friend John Hefner (yes, he is a first cousin once removed of that Hefner, and thanks for asking) started a Facebook thread about the ethnologically-creative casting of New Khan and Montalbán Khan alike. Various and sundry alternatives were suggested by those responding to the initial post; being who he is (and we can’t do anything about it, so why bother trying?), The Cousins tabled an idea of his own—and I quote,  

“Or they could have retconned by saying that Khan had been split into two separate beings, cast Penn and Teller, and had them work the Long Khan and the Short Khan.”

     To really get the joke, I suppose you should also know what the long con and the short con are. Look it up—that’s your homework. I can’t give everything away, you know…the pursuit of knowledge is its own reward, and all that jazz.

     The story doesn’t end here, though. In fact—and this is where the story really starts—this is where the story really starts. Taylor Martin, a magician of no mean prestidigitational ability himself and a friend of both the Hefner who is not that Hefner, but a cousin of that Hefner and the Cousins who is not a Hefner, but is a cousin, but not a cousin of that Hefner, passed on the comment to his friends Penn and Teller. Their electronic responses were as follows, and I quote:

 

 

     (Why, then, did Sparky have to draw you a picture? Because he felt like it—why else does he do anything?) Interestingly, Penn and Teller’s words, when put together, sum up the general public’s reaction to what The Cousins passes off as his “A” material…“funny—I like that”. It’s as if they weren’t expecting even to have a reason to smile quietly to themselves, and were caught pleasantly by surprise. This is usually because they’ve already heard the “B” and “C” material…or worse.

     Questions of joke-making talent aside, such approbation by noteworthy personages would be grist for the mill of any savvy publicist:

     Alas, The Cousins Boy prefers to shun publicity. Not for his myopic eyes the glare of the limelight, no siree. Even though he characterizes recently winning an authentic vintage replica baseball cap in a trivia contest as “the pivotal and defining moment of my entire existence”, he’s quite uncomfortable with the attention that even this minor windfall may bring. The community of minutiae-obsessed headgear aficionados is not exactly rife with stalkers and paparazzi, but, as Recluse Cousins reminds us all, “how many nutcases did Sharon Tate have to meet before she stopped being safe?”

     Alright, the answer to that question has to be “at least two”, since she was Roman Polanski’s girlfriend, but I see what he’s driving at. And this is where the story—at least the part about knowing one’s place in the universe—really starts. You see, The Highly Esteemed Cousins is not among those who believe in the modern version of the royal touch—he knows that a brush with celebrity won’t cure him of being a social leper. Truth to tell, he has a fondness for the fringes of society…and the society of fringes. All things considered, it’s quite reasonable for T.H.E. Cousins to feel this way. Don’t forget—his family name originally means “sorry—I can’t remember who you are…but aren’t you distantly related to someone I should know?”

Uncle Fun

 

In this week’s Funday Sunnies featuring Duncan, the eyes have it:

 

It’s all in the way you look at it, I guess.